


The Friduwulf

by Akaiba



Series: Wolf Fenris [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5636773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akaiba/pseuds/Akaiba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 2 of the Wolf Fenris series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by the magnificent and powerful EmotionalMorphine found here at http://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalmorphine

 

“Hawke… this is a bad idea.” The shift of Anders’ staff from one hand to the other is scraping against the wood of the ferry boat deck and it is setting Fenris’ teeth on edge.

 

Hawke gives Anders his best smile, that roguish curl of his mouth that used to make Anders’ stomach flutter with interest. He sees right through it now, however, with his stomach already tied in nauseous knots. Every heave of the boat;  the gallows gets closer. “Nonsense. I come here all the time!”

 

“You’re the Champion, Hawke. Meredith has been after me for years. You think the templars aren’t going to get suspicious when they have enough of a description of me to almost get my clinic a few times?” Anders snaps in a barely restrained whisper. “You realise Cullen was in the Fereldan Circle, right? What if he recognises me?” Anders pushes Hawke’s arm and then clutches tightly at the man to steady himself, jerking a little as his stomach heaves. Fenris’ gaze snaps fixedly to the grip Anders has on Hawke.

 

Hawke clasps Anders warmly, chuckling as the taller man wriggles and pushes at his chest to get free. “I doubt Cullen will remember you; he’s a templar right? Addled on lyrium is hardly gonna give him the best memory. Besides, you can get more ideas for your manifesto, Fenris gets to be reassured the city’s mages are still crushed under Meredith’s iron grip, and Varric gets to watch me be sarcastic about the magic they know I have and can do nothing about. It’s a win for everyone, right?”

 

Keeping his voice low, distanced as they are from the other passengers, Fenris growls, “Hawke, put the mage down,” before effortlessly tugging Anders from Hawke’s grasp and setting him upright with a firm, assessing once over. “It does not do your intelligence credit to tempt the templars and their patience by bringing a wanted apostate to their door.”

 

Varric shrugs at Fenris’ stern manner. “Come on, broody, way I see it either the Gallows is still standing or it isn’t when we’re done here. Either they leave us be and we carry on our merry way, or someone lays a finger on blondie and you start ripping hearts and Hawke blows the place sky high.”

 

Hawke turns wide eyes to Varric. “You think I could do it? You think I could blow the whole place?”

 

“Sure thing, Hawke.”

 

Their chatter and fawning itches at Fenris’ limited patience as he rolls his eyes and turns to Anders who is once again fidgeting his infernal staff against the floor of the ferry. Fenris reaches out a hand and clasps it over Anders’ flexing ones to still him. “The templars will not have you.” Anders looks at him in surprise and it rankles Fenris that even surrounded by allies he can see Anders is worrying and planning as though he is alone. As though they will stand idly by as the templars take him. “I swear it.”

 

“I thought you weren’t gonna stop them if they finally caught me?” Anders reminds him with such an accepting lack of accusation Fenris scowls.

 

“I changed my mind.” Somewhere between talking with Anders, then falling asleep with a lighter heart and the mage’s scent in his nose, Fenris had adjusted his previously immovable ideals. Just a little. “You are free and shall remain so.”

 

The wry, bitter smile that Anders gives him is not pretty and speaks of things Fenris had long told himself Anders could have no knowledge of. “No, Fenris. _You_ are free. I have simply escaped. I can be taken back at any moment, as I have been many times.” Anders moves to grip the railing as a faintly green expression passes over his face, and Fenris wonders if it is just the heave of the waves that did that as he joins him. “Maker curse boats. And the sea. You know, I escaped the Fereldan Circle twice to come here.”

 

Fenris thinks for a moment he has misheard. “To… come to Kirkwall?”

 

“To the Gallows. They moved Karl here to punish us both for getting too close. You’d think we’d at least have done something to deserve it but I think they just found it funny. I had no one to defend me and Karl had made himself a target by getting attached to me.” Anders heaves but manages to keep his food down. He shoots Fenris a weary, apologetic look. “I don’t know why I am telling you of all people this. You probably find this all very foolish.”

 

“I don’t.” Fenris didn’t need the rest of the story repeated. He remembers it; Anders’ tear streaked face and blood stained dagger as Karl collapsed dead in his arms and Justice ripped free. Fenris had been afraid then. Until then he had thought the mage capable and pretty, if still a mage and thereby not welcome in his company. But then he had felt the fade scream into reality _inside_ the pretty mage and, well… that fear had framed Fenris’ opinion of Anders. He was an abomination and nothing but a liability. Fenris wonders at his current situation of standing next to the mage with no complaint. That first assessment - mage, abomination, danger - can not be erased but… altered. Mage, abomination, danger, but not to us.

 

“Look at us, being all civil.” Anders shakes his head.

 

“It has been known to happen.”

 

“More and more of late,” Anders points out gently, a fact Fenris cannot dispute but one he does not know what to do with. “Come on, I’m just gonna hide behind Varric and hope nothing bad happens.”

 

Fenris scoffs at the idea of the mage fitting his lanky body behind Varric. He follows after Hawke as they dock at the Gallows and Fenris finds himself counting each templar they pass. His concern mounts for the two mages he is with. Their staffs are hardly discreet, though Anders’ at least could pass for a walking stick whereas Hawke’s couldn’t have more pulsing runes along his staff if he- or Sandal- tried. There was tempting fate and then there was pulling down one’s trousers and offering arse to the beast.

 

Fenris finds his gaze lingering on Anders’ rear at the thought and trips over his feet at the notion. Varric grabs his elbow and keeps him upright as Fenris splutters and chokes. “You alright there, broody?”

 

“Fine. Yes.” He grunts, shaking off the intolerable notion he is never certain is his or the wolf’s any more.

 

The dwarf peers at him curiously but Fenris ducks the gaze and hurries after Hawke. He can see the exact moment the Knight-Captain notices Hawke approaching, how the man hunches his shoulders as though there is a chance the Champion sashaying towards him is not there to see him, then going ramrod straight as Hawke cries out jubilantly; “Cullen! How lovely to see you this day!”

 

Varric is already snorting with laughter as Hawke lives up to his promised display of ludicrousy. Anders is hanging back but even he is hiding a laugh at the cocksure way Hawke grips Cullen’s shoulder and shakes it hard. Harder than necessary. Cullen looks as though he would rather be anywhere than where he is.

 

“C-Champion,” Cullen grits out through his teeth.

 

Fenris loses interest in Hawke’s blatant attempt to get information on Carver. The younger Hawke had stopped answering letters a few weeks back, but the Hawke brother’s complex relationship is not on his list of things to puzzle over for the day. Instead, Fenris looks at the templars. And the tranquil. He _really_ looks, as though he were not already of an opinion. He tries to see it as Anders does, as an injustice and not protection.

 

There is a tranquil at a stall Anders is looking over. Her vacant eyes watch him leaning on his staff as though he needs it to aid him. Fenris thinks Anders is making a rather convincing show of simply being a slightly lame man. Anders is not so far away that Fenris cannot hear Anders ask her prices, and then gently asking after her wellbeing. He hears her reply, that same empty yet calm tone that never fails to make Anders agitated and upset. Anders gives her a soft, sad smile and nods. Fenris can hear Hawke to the right of him, arguing with Cullen about a job the templar had asked him to complete, though the idea of killing more blood mages is soothing to Fenris in a sick way he isn’t sure normal people feel. It is to Fenris a way of reclaiming what he has lost, a leftover sense of vengeance that Anders would no doubt disapprove of.

 

He sees Anders reach out to pick up a salve from the table, his fingers barely reaching it before the Tranquil woman speaks up sharply. Fenris wonders had she the capability then maybe she might have been panicked.

  
“Please do not touch my wares or I will be beaten by the templars again.” The mild manner of her tone makes it so much sharper to hear and Fenris watches Anders freeze, sees the moment Anders’ hatred and sorrow grips him and Fenris can feel… sympathy. Anders inclines his head apologetically and shuffles back towards Hawke, looking ill and hopeless.

 

The need to reach out to Anders is perplexing but Hawke and Cullen’s arguing is getting heated. As Fenris turns to see what Hawke has done now Cullen looks to him as though he might offer some support.

 

“Mages cannot be treated like people- they are not like you and me!” It is a warning; to get away from Hawke. To divide them, to try and scare Fenris away from the evil monster mage Cullen insists they all are- even as the ‘mage’ Champion of Kirkwall is in front of him. But it isn’t Hawke Fenris’ gut twists in concern for.

 

“How c-can you… how can you say that?” Anders voice cracks with barely contained rage- barely contained Justice.

 

Fenris feels the prickle of the fade across his skin as he reaches for Anders instinctively. He clasps one hand over Anders’ hands as they grip his staff for dear life, the other arm going around Anders’ shoulder to keep his head bowed and hide any blue cracks that might appear. Fenris’ teeth pull back in a snarl and he glares at Cullen, the need to lash out at him itching at his more logical thoughts which are far more difficult to grasp with Anders shaking in his arms.

 

“Not people, huh?” Hawke prods Cullen’s chestplate, no hint of amusement in his voice now as he eyes the young and broken looking man. “Suddenly I don’t feel so confident about the safety of the mages in your care. I guess I’ll take my not-people self and my people-people friends and handle that not-people problem you have that you can’t handle with your people-people.” He whirls around and storms back towards the ferry, Varric tugging Fenris to get him moving as he huddles Anders along with them.

 

The ferry is silent, no passengers but them on deck. Fenris stands with Anders still, snarling at the gallows. The ferry makes ready to unmoor and leave.

 

“You can let go of me now. I promise I won’t go all Justice-y,” Anders says softly. Fenris jumps to obey as he realises how tightly he had been holding Anders, shuffling back a step as Anders draws himself up and takes a slow breath.

 

Varric let out a long sigh through his nose before squinting up at a still furious Hawke. “You mind if I rewrite that speech in my book? The whole not-people, people-people tirade was… not your best.”

 

Hawke shrugs. “I was angry. Apparently I don’t think straight when I am angry.” He slumps onto a bench and runs his hands through his hair, the joyful character Hawke made himself into that they all eagerly followed just… slipping free. Instead they saw the tired man with far more crushing weight on his shoulders than he deserved. “I guess I know why Carver stopped replying; I’m not… I’m not people.” He lets out a bitter laugh as Varric _tsked_ at him.

 

“Now, Hawke… Junior is a big boy and he’s probably just busy.” Hawke scoffs again and Varric sits beside him with a grunt. “You’re people to me.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Technically you could be two people to me, Hawke, you’re so damn big.” Varric grins as Hawke laughs, this time a little more genuinely. “You too, blondie.” Anders gives him a wan smile.

 

“It would be difficult…” Fenris says slowly, “to have the company of not-people.”

 

“Well shit, broody, are you trying to say what I think you’re failing miserably at saying?”

 

Fenris’ scowls at him a little for the jab. “I am simply saying I do not keep the company of not-people. Which is a fact.”

 

Hawke stands from his seat to sweep Fenris into a warm embrace, ignoring the elf’s indignant flailing as he wriggled to be free. “Thank you.”

 

“You are welcome. Now let me go.”

 

“Five more seconds, please, this is so nice.” Hawke squeezes Fenris and hears the armour the elf wears creak in protest before Fenris is pushing Hawke back at arm's length.

 

Hawke grins unrepentantly but obligingly returns to his seat as Anders coughs awkwardly. “You’re blushing.” The mage is smiling, though, and it does not help Fenris’ blush.

 

“I was just accosted by a beast of a man.”

  
“Right here, Fenris. I’m right here,” Hawke cries.

 

Anders is smiling still and it eases Fenris to not have to look at that grief stricken, hurting expression he had worn when Cullen had spoken. “Thank you. For not… agreeing with Cullen.”

 

Fenris fidgets under the weight of that, feeling it as an accusation as his ingrained beliefs rebel at the idea of simply washing away everything he has always known as fact, and yet… he stands in the company of two mages, without whom he would not be standing there at all. He owes much to Anders and Hawke in turn, and he would hesitantly call Anders a friend, Hawke definitely so. In light of that, how can he agree with Cullen? “I am… trying.”

 

Anders’ hand brushes his and, blessedly, neither Hawke nor Varric point it out. “Thank you.”

 

There is silence for a moment before Varric offers; “Maybe we don’t bring Anders here again, hm?”

 

They answer as one, “Agreed.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke, as a rule, did not like being woken up before lunchtime. At which time he then liked to enjoy lunch and nap for a little longer.

 

“Messere, there is a guest downstairs…”

 

Hawke whines pitifully, “But why~y?!” He turns to burrow deeper into the blankets as Bodahn tries to tug them from his grasp. As futile as it proves to be, Hawke tries to fight against Bodahn’s adept handling of his tantrum, but as much he tries he soon finds himself in trousers and being marched from his room. “This is not fair.”

 

“Such is life, I find, Messere,” Bodahn replies with such brightness that Hawke almost misses the sarcastic agreement before he is standing atop the stairs to greet his guest.

 

His guest who apparently has no interest in him.

 

“That isn’t a guest.” Hawke blinks. “That’s Anders.” Hawke firmly believes his friends stop being guests when they start throwing his teasing back at him. Then they’re practically family.

 

Anders is sitting cross legged on the rug by the fireplace as he stares intently at Dog with apparently no urge to even greet Hawke.

 

“He has been here since sunrise, Messere.” Bodahn raises his eyebrows meaningfully, clearly indicating the handling of sewer-dwelling apostates is not part of his job description as he gestured for Hawke to deal with it. Him. Anders.

 

Hawke scratches at his beard in confusion- and all before he can even beg Orana for some toast. “What does he want?” 

 

“I can hear you both, you know.”

 

“That is wonderful news, Messere!” Bodahn declares, giving Hawke a sharp nudge before hurrying to the kitchen and away from them all. 

 

Dog barks happily as Hawke begins to shuffle down the stairs, the mabari’s stubby tail wagging even as he remains sitting with Anders. _ Traitor _ .  _ Must be a dog thing; Fenris has a thing for blonde mage’s too,  _ Hawke thinks. He is awake enough to think better of saying it outloud, however.

 

“So… is that something that just happens or are you doing it on purpose?” Anders asks, crossing his arms as he frowns in thought.

 

Dog’s ears flatten as he looks at his still wagging tail, watching it curiously as it slows and then wags excitedly again. He  _ wuffs _ at Anders, a distinctly confused tone as he looks beseechingly to Hawke.

 

“Have you been over here interrogating my dog the entire time?” Hawke slumps into the armchair near the fire, watching Anders and Dog on the rug. Orana quietly brings him a tray of breakfast and he almost sweeps her up into an embrace he is so grateful, but he tells her his intent even if he cannot be separated from the breakfast tray at the moment. 

 

She laughs before turning to Anders. “Is there still nothing I can get you, m-mas…” Orana looks to Hawke, the man smiling as encouraging as he can around a mouthful of bacon. “Messere,” she finishes with only a small tremble. Anders gives her a soft smile for the victory but shakes his head.

 

“No thank you, Orana.” By the time she has dipped in a curtsey Anders has his attention firmly fixed on Dog again. “There! That!”

 

Dog whines at the sharp cry, his perked ears flattening to his skull in alarm. 

 

“No! No! What did the-... the, you know!” Anders lifts his hands to his head, resting them atop his hair and flopping his fingers down in imitation of Dog’s ears. “What did that mean?!” Anders’ sounds almost hysterical as Hawke heaves a sigh and reluctantly stands from his chair, setting down his tray with a promising look. He sits beside Anders on the floor as Dog shuffles closer to his master. Apparently pretty blondes aren’t as appealing when they are hysterical.

 

“Alright, out with it.” Hawke sighs again, wishing for once that his companions could accost him at a reasonable hour. He pats Dog’s head comfortingly, chuckling as Dog licks his palm and reminding him of Fenris. He frowns and looks at Anders. “This is about Fenris, isn’t it?”

 

Anders’ arms are crossed and he’s scowling at the rug petulantly. “Well I am certainly not here to steal your mabari. I’m a cat person.” Dog growls and Anders sticks his tongue out at the animal until Hawke presses a finger to Anders’ forehead and pushes him back.

 

“Don’t antagonise my dog,” he says to Anders before turning to Dog. “And you, don’t antagonise my mage.”

 

Anders and Dog huff before silence falls and Hawke patiently waits. Silence isn’t something Anders enjoys and Hawke would break it if it would help, but it takes Anders five seconds to break the silence. He looks to Hawke with slumped shoulders. “I…” He hunches even further and Hawke stops smiling; Anders looks… sad.

 

Hawke cups Anders’ jaw, squishing his cheeks with his thumb and forefinger as the healer splutters in his grasp. “Come on, sound it out.”

  
“Hawke!” Anders shoves at the hulking man, failing entirely to move Hawke until Hawke graciously lets the mage wriggle free. This time Anders is smiling. Faintly, but it is still there. “Maker, you…” Anders shakes his head. “I just wanted to see if I could… well, figure out what Dog meant when he did dog things and maybe then I could help Fenris figure out what it meant when he did it. Except I think Dog is less wolfy than Fenris and I don’t think I am getting anywhere.”

 

“Ahh…” Hawke and Dog share a look. Hawke nods as Dog pads away from the fireplace and Hawke turns to more fully give Anders his attention. “Look, you know that Fenris isn’t  _ really _ a wolf, right?”

 

“Do we _ know _ that though?” Anders points out. “We don’t actually know anything about Fenris’ condition aside from the fact a sick bastard did it with blood magic - we guess - and that sick bastard is now dead so we can’t ask him but there’s some Tevene trigger words- not to mention his own nature that sometimes takes control- Hawke, we know nothing about this.” Anders drags a hand over his face. 

 

Hawke shakes his head. “You have some points but we do know some things.” He holds up  one finger. “One, Fenris is not actually a wolf. He’s a grumpy elf who could probably hold both of us above his head.” Hawke nods to himself before holding up a second finger. “Two, Danarius is dead, along with Hadriana, and anyone else who might know the right Tevene commands is far from here and far from Fenris. Three, if they came anywhere near him we’d all slaughter them.” Hawke cheerfully grins as he waggles the third finger before raising a fourth. “Four, I don’t think how well Fenris has been doing lately is down to Danarius being dead. Sure that helps but he’s not fighting his wolf nature like he must have been when we first met him. Maker, Anders, you’ve helped him actually be comfortable. With us, with himself. Fenris is fine. A little quirky, but so are all of us.”

 

The fire pops and Anders looks to it in accusation before sighing. He knows Hawke is right, he feels in his gut that Fenris is doing fine, and yet… “It isn’t just, Hawke.”

 

“No, no. I’m not talking to Justice until I’ve had breakfast.”

 

“It’s still me. But it still stands, what was done to Fenris wasn’t fair and if it was done with magic then perhaps there is a way of undoing it… I just need to understand it and know for certain what Fenris is dealing with. If it can’t be undone then… then we know. If it can, though? If we can give Fenris back a fraction of the life that was taken from him by magic?”

 

Hawke rubs his beard thoughtfully. “You got it bad for him, huh?”

 

Anders pushes him but his flushed face answers the question. “I am a healer, Hawke. And this is just. This is good.”

 

“If we can do it.”

 

Anders nods solemnly as Hawke turns the idea over in his mind. “Okay… You’re right. We don’t know anything for certain and if there’s a chance we could help him, we should.” Hawke waves off the delighted grin Anders gives him but he is smiling too. Anders’ joy is infectious. “Alright, alright, the swooning isn’t necessary. Don’t you have a clinic to run?”

 

Anders crushes him in a hug anyway. “I have some ideas. I’ll be back later!”

 

Hawke has barely processed the mage in his arms before Anders is waving at him from the foyer and then with an almighty slam Hawke’s home is undisturbed. He blinks and stands, feeling hopeful they might be able to give Fenris some help even if it is only understanding what had been done to him. They had to try even for that. Hawke turns back to his armchair only to find his lovingly made breakfast tray has been licked clean of every speck of food. Dog is already hiding under the armchair but he doesn’t look even a little apologetic. 

 

“I’m going to get a cat,” Hawke declares. Dog whines. “Five cats. And I am going to let them sleep on my bed.” Dog whines like he’s been stabbed, burying his face behind his paws- the very picture of contrition. “Bad dog.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris’ breath comes in heaving pants, the burn of his lungs the first thing he notices on waking.

 

The room is stuffy and Fenris has kicked the blankets off during his sleep. They tangle around his feet as he struggles with them, his skin prickling and his hips jerking with the tail end of his dream.

 

The tightness of his leggings are made tighter by his aroused state but he pays it no mind as he clings to the fading impressions of warm hands, a warm mouth on his, and hair sliding between his fingers as he… as they…

 

Fenris’ eyes snap open at the sharp image of Anders smiling over him but wakefulness proves it just a last tease of his mind.

 

He is alone in his room and his cock is like an iron rod when he looks down. Fenris whimpers when he shifts, his hand flying down to cup the bulge and ease the strain but it does little to help.

 

Like a flash he hears Danarius voice.

 

“Touching yourself?” Fenris squeezes his eyes shut at the memory of fingers curled into his jaw, the grip on his head just phantom but he tries to shake it free anyway. “What use have I for a slave who thinks only of their own pleasure?”

 

“You’re dead,” Fenris seethes into the empty room. “I am no slave.” His hand has moved from his cock though, shame and fear tight in his gut as he wars with the trained response.

 

“Selfish slave… perhaps I should cut it off. But then I would ruin my own creation. My pretty little wolf…”

 

Fenris squeezes his eyes shut. “You are dead. I killed you.” His voice is weaker now, the alluring pull of arousal cooled in him as he loses this battle. The chains pull tight still, even with the memory of Danarius’ blood on his hands.

 

“Perhaps you would thank me… my pretty little wolf, so ashamed of your deformity.”

 

He lunges from the bed, bare hands reaching to claw at the nightmare not tangible enough for him to rip apart. Fenris’ teeth gnash and his body coils to tear at something- upending the nearest table and feeling the wine glass atop it shatter as it hits the floor. The books thud but are far more resistant to Fenris’ carnage as he staggers around the room before slumping to his knees, his sleep-addled balance failing. He growls low in his throat as he claws blunt nails against tiles.

 

It does not ease the shame. It’s like bile in his throat, revulsion at his own body a tangible sickness in his gut that he rebels against. For the first time since he started thinking of the mage as ‘Anders’ he considers… what Anders would think of him.

 

Would think of his… deformity.

 

Arousal is but a distant idea now. Cold underneath his self-loathing, Fenris wonders if he will ever be free of Danarius. He cannot even touch himself and the memory of Danarius’ life fading at his feet does not loosen that control. It’s beaten in, woven into his mind. A sickness in his mind he cannot erase with vengeance and it is not as though he can ask Anders for help. He snorts pathetically at the idea of visiting Anders to ask him for assistance in jerking off over ideas of him. 

 

Fenris had become too reliant on the helping hand Anders seemed only too happy to offer. He swallows hard, a click of his throat audible in the still room as he wonders if he had not torn free of his chains but simply handed the leash to another. 

 

Another mage.

 

It was a weak thought, one he could soften easily now with memories of Anders lying beside him under a bed. 

 

The thought that will not abate is the fear of rejection. That he and the mage might… might reach a place where they could…

 

And his flawed anatomy will make Anders laugh or recoil. Or both. The mage had been vocal enough about his experiences, he would know the moment he saw that Fenris was… wrong.

 

Fenris slides onto his side and curls into a ball. He feels Danarius’ hand in his hair, whispered words that Danarius would be the only one to ever accept him. His pretty little wolf. The cold tiles make Fenris shake and it his excuse as he digs his nails into his skin until it hurts, the burn behind his eyes nothing more than that.

 

Maker damn mages, every one of them, he thinks.


	4. Chapter 4

“Mage.” There is a question there, much as it is ground out flatly Anders can hear it just the same.

 

“Hnn~?” Anders’ voice is strained behind the white knuckled grasp of his hand over his mouth.

 

Fenris swallows with an audible click of his throat. “Did… did you just… whine?” Anders makes another sound fraught with something trembling and barely held. It makes Fenris’ stomach tie in knots. “Mage?”

 

“Maker, Fenris-!” The choked gasp of his name from Anders’ mouth is not at all helping the situation. Fenris feels the grasp he has on Anders’ thigh tighten and Anders makes the sound again. “Ooh…!” The gasp trails off into a soft, thin whine. It is definitely a whine. 

 

“Mage, there is a dragon,” Fenris hastens to remind himself more than Anders with the mage shuddering like that.

 

“You just picked me up and threw me over you shoulder like I weigh nothing!” Anders punctuates his sentence by slamming his fist down on Fenris back in punishment. “I think I’m allowed to swoon a little!”

 

“Swoon?” Fenris repeats the word incredulously.

 

“Like I weigh nothing, Fenris!”

 

“There is a dragon!”

 

“Fenris!” Hawke’s voice bellows, the dragon’s tail whipping round to slam against the low hanging cave Fenris had snatched himself and Anders into. “Run NOW!”

 

Fenris does not hesitate. His hand shifts higher to Anders’ ample rear and he lurches out of the shelter of the cave. The dragon’s attention has whipped around to Hawke and Fenris can see their opening. The clearing had seemed the perfect place to catch the dragon but it had turned into their own undoing. Fenris does not stop as he hears Varric and Hawke join their escape, he does not even slow until he can smell clean air, free of ash. 

 

Hawke slumps over onto the ground with a heaving gasp for air. “Okay. My bad.”

 

“You think?!” Varric kicks Hawke’s armoured belly before collapsing beside him. “I think you can put Blondie down now, Broody.”

 

Fenris obliges with a flush at having forgotten he was even carrying the man. Anders bounces a little on his feet when he is set on them, his knees buckling as they fail to catch him at first. His cheeks are stained pink and he is dazedly looking at Fenris, his hair in disarray and soot splashed across his face in streaks of black.

 

“Mage…?”

 

Anders bites his lip. “Like I weigh nothing,” he repeats in a croaky whisper. “Maker…” He slumps to sit down beside Varric, turning to look at the dwarf. “Like I weigh nothing.”

 

“I think Broody broke Blondie, Hawke.”

 

Fenris folds his arms and scowls down at the three sprawled beings at his feet. “I did not break him.”

 

Hawke sits up. “Hey, carry me back to Kirkwall!” he declares like it is the greatest idea in the world.

 

“No.”

 

“Please!”

 

“No.”

 

“I bet you’d do it if Anders asked.” Hawke pouts and Fenris can feel his face flushing as he looks to Anders. The mage has his bottom lip caught between his teeth and seems lost to imagining the idea of it. Fenris can see it too; Anders sprawled over his shoulder and bouncing against him with each step, this time with no dragon chasing them so he can fully feel every agonising second. 

 

“Fuck…” Anders falls backwards and sprawls in the grass. Fenris couldn’t agree more. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired from a prompt courtesy of the lovely DashingApostate and as such I dedicate it to her. :D

Fenris knows he shouldn’t have taken it. He also knows he should probably give it back. The mage has so few possessions already that taking from them seems in appalling taste.

 

Yet Fenris does none of the things he knows he probably should do.

 

Instead he stuffs the shirt to the bottom of his bag in the scurry of packing up camp and pretends to ignore the mage’s complaining that he has lost it. Fenris does not offer to help look and instead backs Hawke’s decision to head for Kirkwall. Hawke promises to buy Anders another shirt and Fenris digs his heels into the ground with each step as he tells himself that he has no say in what gifts Anders does or does not accept.

 

It quells any guilt Fenris might feel as he listens to Anders agreeing to Hawke’s offer. The shirt was ratty and in need of replacing anyway, so Fenris assures himself he has done Anders a favour.

 

He can’t quite say for certain what possessed him to take the shirt. The night had been a warm summers night and they hadn’t bothered with tents, their camp a mess of bedrolls and packs strewn about. Anders’ pack had been next to Fenris’ so really, it had been the mage’s own carelessness that tempted Fenris’ hand when the shirt was left so close to Fenris’ bag.

 

Fenris is itchy to leave the moment they return to Kirkwall, breaking away from the group with a brief brush of his head past Hawke’s shoulder. It is an irritatingly regular show of deference and affection that Fenris has resigned himself to making when he passes his friend. Hawke just smiles and waves, Fenris not halting to bid the others farewell because he isn’t sure he can meet Anders’ eyes.

 

He definitely doesn’t flee to his mansion, though. His steps are certain and firm but he refuses to feel shamed for taking an old shirt that mage had little need of.

 

It is more use to Fenris than Anders anyway.

 

Though it has his stomach clenching fitfully to admit it, even to himself, the mage’s scent is calming. Elfroot, milk, magic. It has Fenris easing even just knowing he can smell it on the shirt in his pack whenever he wants. He hopes maybe it will ease his primal attachment to the mage, just to regain the equilibrium he finds himself missing so earnestly. He blames the lack of world opening revelations since Danarius’ death squarely on that fixation and his… situation.

 

Anything he can do to ease it and regain some control is fair, Fenris thinks even Anders would agree- even if the mage would perhaps not approve of the theft of his belongings.

 

He takes the stairs two at a time up to the main room he utilises in the old mansion, blaming eagerness on the long trip and the aching in his muscles. It isn’t as though Fenris isn’t all too familiar with sleeping rough, one eye cracked and waiting, wary, but since having a place of his own he has to admit that his own bed is much preferable. Not that he has had much sleep in his own bed of late.

 

Fenris looks at the bag dropped so ominously onto his bed. His hands clench fitfully at his sides.

 

It’s simple, he tells himself. Open the bag, take out the shirt, undress, wear the shirt, get some sleep. It violates so many social norms and Fenris knows it, he also knows he should probably be more bothered by it as well.

 

Step one is easy, he opens the bag. He can’t even so the shirt he’s buried it so well.

 

But he can smell it.

 

Soft and enticing the scent curls up to him and beckons him closer, like if he looks hard enough he will find the mage himself in the bag. Foolish.

 

Step two gets a little derailed but Fenris is counting it as an overall success. The shirt is out of the bag, the fact that he buried his face in it the moment he managed to free it is of little consequence.

 

The next steps happen faster, like he’s caused a chain reaction now that all he can smell is Anders. His armour is discarded to the table with little consequence, his own shirt moments after, then he has Anders’ shirt back in his grasp. The fabric is roughspun, worn almost see through in patchy places and a poorly mended tear at the collar that spoke of the mage’s lack of care and not his needlework ability. He has been treated to the mage’s work early in their acquaintance when Anders despaired of his hatred of magic and refusal to be healed, a thin silvery mark barely visible on Fenris’ arm now all that remained of the precise stitches Anders had given him.

 

Fenris’ fingers fiddle with the fabric at the memory. It still unsettles him to think how far his relationship has changed with the mage, since even before Danarius’ parting gift he and the mage hadn’t been quite as antagonistic. Now he stands with the mage’s shirt in his hands as his only hope for a good night’s rest. Well… there was always wine. Copious amounts of it and Fenris would be dead to the world for the whole night but he did not want to become the person that lay at the end of that road.

 

The shirt, while of poorer quality than anything Fenris personally owns, is well worn to a comfortable softness against Fenris’ skin but that isn’t the most noticeable thing to Fenris. It hangs off him, and that strikes him as so strange.

 

The mage is tall, of that Fenris is well aware after having to scowl up at him for so many years, but the shirt not only hangs to his mid-thigh it is also wide. Anders is not fat, not at all, and it's often a point of contention between Hawke and Anders as the man looks as though a stiff breeze might knock him over- and Fenris has to agree it is worrisome at times. Not that he worries. About the mage. He doesn't.

 

But Anders is, apparently, broad. Not overly in comparison to Fenris who has an unusual bull to him for an elf, but Anders’ shoulders are broader enough that the collar of the shirt gapes. It isn't hanging off Fenris’ shoulder but it is close and Fenris almost feels drowned in fabric at the difference from his customary form fitting shirt.

 

Fenris raises his arms curiously, the sleeves covering his hands sliding down a little so he can feel the material move. It is… comfortable.

 

Fenris frowns. No, that isn't right. It is _comforting_.

 

He feels wrapped in the mage's scent and cosy in the overly large clothing, and not to say he had felt cold but it feels all the warmer to be so covered in familiar clothing- even if it is not his own. Perhaps especially that it is not his own, he had after all taken the mage's shirt for a reason.

 

Fenris presses his hands to his stomach to feel the puff of the baggy material as he experimentally tugs at it. Yes, he thinks, this will do.

 

The scent comforts him as he slides into his bed. Warmth of home coaxes him to relax, not thinking how he is only reinforcing the tie of ‘home’ with Anders at the relief of finally sinking into sleep.

 

He sleeps so well, in fact, that when a knock comes to his door the next morning he answers it still half asleep- hand around his sword just in case.

 

“A cheery welcome as ever.” Anders teases as he spies the sword first, though it carries much less accusation it might once have and Fenris would say the mage sounds fond if anything. “Hawke wants us over at-... oh.”

 

Fenris freezes the moment his sleep muddled mind catches on to Anders’ staring at him. Because he had woken to Anders’ scent before he had padded to the front door, already held in the gentle comfort of it even if nothing compared to the moment he opened the door and scented the man himself.

 

Because he is still wearing the shirt.

 

“I, uh… I can explain,” Fenris chokes out, fighting the urge to step back and be cowed by shame at Anders having caught him red-handed.

 

Anders’ stunned face splits into an incredulous grin. “Oh, this I have to hear!”

 

Fenris’ grip on his sword turns fidgety as he ducks his head. “I… I do not wish to explain.”

 

“I’m sure you don’t.” He’s teasing, Fenris realises, teasing him means he isn’t angry. Surprised, maybe, but not angry. “But come on; you took my shirt? I thought I was going mad, I knew I hadn’t misplaced it.” Fenris ducks his head again, firmly avoiding eye contact as the mage chuckles.

 

“Yes. You are not going mad. I will… I will dress and we can go to Hawke.”

 

Fenris turns on his heel to hurry away and Anders, ever one to refuse to let a matter settle, follows after him with the same face-splitting grin firmly in place. “Oh no, no, no! You don’t get away with this that easily! I’ve been pretty understanding about this whole wolf thing but _really_ ? My _shirt_? I mean, it’s…”

 

As much as Fenris had been wishing for it, he didn’t really think Anders would give up just yet with the teasing so the sudden trailing off mid sentence makes Fenris pause on the stairs. When he turns, against his better judgement as surely a quiet mage is a gift from the Maker himself, Anders is not looking at him. More specifically, he is, but not at Fenris’ face.

 

Fenris learned fast that Kirkwall was given to sweltering weather no matter the time of year, but it is still no Minrathous. In addition there is the non-negotiable fact that leather becomes quite stifling in heat and as comfortable as Fenris had found the shirt to sleep in the same could not be said of his leggings. He had made the choice in the night to peel his leggings off and kick them aside. A wise decision as it had been infinitely more comfortable.

 

It is, however, unwise of him to have forgotten.

 

At several steps lower on the mansion’s stairs Anders could in fact see miles of bronzed, dark skin and swirling lyrium framed around two muscled legs and higher still to-

 

Fenris’ hands snatch the edge of the shirt and he pulls it down as far as the baggy material will go. “Avert your gaze, mage!” He snarls, toes curling into the mouldy carpet as his agitation is prevented an outlet. If he moves, the mage will only see more and that is unacceptable much as he would love to go and drag the mage out by his ear. Fenris knew the mage was getting too comfortable with him and now here they were; the mage staring dazedly up at him, up the hem of his stolen sleepwear and so close to seeing- Fenris pulls the mage’s shirt down further. He prays to the Maker that Anders has not already seen his misshapen anatomy. At the angle it was unlikely, at best Anders simply got a view of his… his rear. Fenris’ ears flatten and he’s practically vibrating with embarrassment as he stares Anders down.

 

That his wolf wants to preen and strut under Anders’ gaze is not helping matters, but this once it is Fenris who wins the battle and shame is what they stuck with.

 

Anders’ eyes snap up to Fenris’ face and the mage looks as guilty as Fenris imagines he did when the mage caught him wearing Anders’ shirt. “Maker, I-I, shit, sorry!” The moment Anders turns his back to Fenris, the elf scrambles into his room and slams his door with all the frustrated inaction he had felt a moment before.

 

The walk to Hawke’s is unbearably awkward, even not fully armoured and Anders looking as contrite as he can manage while still a bit dazed like he had glimpsed the arse of Andraste herself.

 

“So… call it even?” Anders asks when the tension gets too much.

 

Fenris cannot and does not think he will any time soon be able to look at Anders. “What?”

 

“The, um, shirt stealing and my, uh…”

 

“Blatant leering and perverse gazing?” Fenris suggests sharply. Regardless of the incident, the idea that Anders would have been receiving the shirt back otherwise is laughable as far as Fenris is concerned. The shirt is his now.

 

Anders flails a hand at the sky. “Your arse was in my face! And excu~se me for being unable to look away from a pair of dimples twinkling at me no matter the cheeks they’re on!”

 

Fenris pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Anders, you will cease speaking before I remove your tongue!”

 

“You used my name!” The mage crows with delight.

 

“Quiet!” Maker take every single person in Thedas, Fenris has not the patience to deal with any of them and it is all Anders’ fault. Hawke had better simply want a quiet day with company because Fenris does not think he can take another trip so soon, especially if Anders is going.

 

Anders mimes snapping a padlock over his mouth and Fenris foolishly believes the matter closed. However, throughout the blessedly quiet gathering Fenris catches Anders lost in thought with that same dazed smirk on his face and he feels his stomach clench to know what Anders thinks of. It is not an unpleasant sensation.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for mydearmadamekirby :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is littered with mistakes! I am on holiday at the moment and tried to finish this up while travelling. :)

“Wolves.” Hawke swirls the syllables of the word around his mouth as though he can’t quite grasp it. “In Hightown?”

“Not ‘wolves’. Wolf. Just one.” Aveline pushes the report towards Hawke that he had let drop with a scoff.

Hawke folds his arms and refuses to take the paper, leaning to one side like he can do this all day, but it is well known he can’t. Aveline always won when they bickered. “Well to know that it sounds like someone has seen it, so why isn’t there a description, hm?”

Her hands on her desk as Aveline leans forward, the firm unbending will to Hawke’s easy adaptability. Hawke had never had an older sibling, but he thinks the Maker saw fit to give him one whether he likes it or not. “Hawke, this is serious! I don’t have a description of the wolf but I have a damning pile of reports pointing me to where I can find it!”

“Oh? And where might that be?” 

“Do not play coy with me, Hawke, I haven’t the time for it.” If there is one thing to be said for Aveline’s putting up with Hawke it is that she had mastered what even Leandra could not- how to cut through the bullshit. “I didn’t spend months restructuring patrol routes just so Fenris could ruin it with… with whatever this is!”

“Fenris isn’t a real wolf!” Hawke hisses.

The paper slams into his chest with one open palmed but very armoured hand. “I don’t care what we’re calling it; deal with it.”

The finger pointing him to the door is unnecessary but it makes Hawke feel the need to stomp as he leaves, not quite daring to slam the door but he thinks about it. He thinks about it and then he shivers to contemplate how Aveline would react to that. He doesn’t look at the report again until he is outside the Viscount’s keep. 

“‘Howling’, huh?” Hawke tsks under his breath and scrunches the report. He’s angry on Fenris’ behalf at the very idea that Fenris would be doing something so ridiculous. 

Hawke knows it’s bullshit, but he also knows he’s going to have to look into it anyway otherwise Aveline will only be more pissed. There has to be a way to do it discretely without making Fenris a mockery of their rag-tag group- as though he hasn’t been for a while, but it had started to die down. As much as Hawke loves and cherishes his friends, it does sometimes mean navigating them around each other. 

Luckily, Hawke knows one person he can count on who has been surprisingly discreet and supportive throughout this whole thing. Someone Hawke knows will also find this whole thing ridiculous and they can have it wrapped up by lunchtime.

\---

Anders did not find the whole thing ridiculous. 

“Howling is pretty common across all canines, Hawke.” Anders has his sleeves rolled up and is wrist deep in stewed elfroot, the potency such that Hawke had to turn away. Anders seems immune. The healer crushes the leaves between his fingers, wringing out the water the leaves had stewed in before depositing them into another pot. Hawke has no patience for making salves. 

Hawke groans, a little hurt that even Anders seems to suspect Fenris. “Fenris is very much not a canine, Anders! Not really!” Anders raises an eyebrow, turning to look over his shoulder and it only serves to incense Hawke more. “Oh, come on! Yes, sure, let’s agree he’s a bit more feral than most but it’s largely benign! Dog drags his arse across the rug in the hall and I know that’s a pretty widespread habit for canines, I don’t see Fenris doing that either!”

A strangled choking sound escapes Anders as he laughs at the image of Fenris doing such a thing. He also had a rather up close and personal memory of Fenris’ arse to make it a truly special image. “No, I don’t think so either, but then Fenris has a mobile and dexterous hand to itch his arse if he feels so inclined. Not sure needing a good itch is why wolves and dogs howl.” Anders awkwardly wipes his sweat streaked face on his arm, leaning over the pot and still working away. Hawke would help but how Anders stands the smell of stewed elfroot is beyond him. “Not that I would know, I’m still a cat person.”

Now there is a thought, Hawke ponders as he settles onto an empty cot. Why do dogs, or in this case wolves, howl? His first person to ask would be Dog but Dog isn’t the best at communicating in depth responses. 

An apron lands in his lap. “Come on, if you’re just gonna clutter up my clinic then you’re gonna at least help.” Anders is already scowling before Hawke even forms the first whining note of his protest. “You use these as much as my patients do, unless you want me to mistakenly slip some rashvine into yours?”

“No, messere.” The whine is still colouring Hawke’s tone but Anders lets it slide with a pointed look to the pot he’s filling. 

“Get mashing.” 

Anyone under the illusion that Hawke is the leader of their merry little group isn’t paying enough attention, at least it doesn’t feel like it with Aveline and Anders bossing him around.

\---

Hawke is grumpy and stinks of elfroot poultices when he makes it home. He's unwilling to intrude on Fenris with something insulting so instead Hawke seeks a warm meal and a warmer bath. Anders follows him to the estate because if there is one thing Anders could be persuaded to leave his clinic for, it is Orana’s cooking. 

Hawke will deal with Aveline’s disturbance reports after a bath and one fed healer.

Anders neatly sidesteps as Dog barrels into Hawke, knocking the man clear onto his back in the foyer as Bodahn chuckles helplessly at the sight. 

“Pardon messere, he's done nothing but await your return.”

Hawke wraps his thick arms around Dog, wrestling and petting him as Dog slobbers over his face. The mage coos and laughs at his beloved mabari as Bodahn ushers Anders into the reception room. The mage and the dwarf share a look but they have long since become adjusted to the special bond between a Fereldan and a mabari.

“You'd think Hawke had been gone months.” Anders gives Bodahn a wry smile and the dwarf returns it, nodding to Orana as Anders sits at the table.

Bodahn pulls out a chair at the table for Sandal to sit in as the young boy hurries eagerly into the room. “Oh, this happens no matter how long messere Hawke is gone! He whines and cries, howling something fierce unless someone sits with him! Sandal knows how to give him a bit of comfort, right my boy?”

“Enchantment!”

Anders pauses as he politely takes a bowl of stew from Orana, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Howling?” He repeats.

“All the time, messere, isn't that right Orana?” Bodahn effortlessly navigates the conversation to include all of the people in the room, and it is heartwarming to see how Orana has eased into the household.

The elf girl’s head bobs dutifully in agreement. “Such lonely howling, it is so sad.”

Anders gulps down a mouthful of stew, thick in his throat as he forgets to chew properly. “L-lonely?” 

“Until the messere returns, of course. Then he's just as he always is!” Bodahn shakes his head good naturedly as Hawke enters the room. “Dinner, messere?”

Before Hawke can speak, Anders is standing from his chair. “I have to go.” 

“Anders?” Hawke protests.

Anders snatches up two bread rolls from the table. “Orana? Can I have some of this to take with me?” Orana only moves after a nod from Hawke.

Still, Hawke pouts like a moping child. “Aw, what did I say? You don't have to go!” 

“Sorry, Hawke.” Anders casts a look around the table, a place set for Gamlen when he returns, Bodahn and Sandal already sitting, Orana back with a basket and ready to take her place- Hawke is not wanting for company.

Fenris is.

\---

Fenris clenches his hands fitfully at his sides, the weight of his gauntlets an unsettling absence as his agitation increases. The sun has long set over Kirkwall and with it Fenris knows what is coming.

It doesn't happen every night. Wicked Grace night, he sleeps easy, the nights spent on errands with Hawke, he utters not one untoward sound. He even went so far to set up his own card night and he enjoys those evenings as well. But the nights he has to himself?

He enjoys them to a point, but the length of them is intolerable. The noise of voices and camaraderie, the warmth of the companions- the friends- he has made is painfully lacking. Fenris aches from loneliness and he's unsure how to fix it, all excuses ringing empty to his ears for anything he can conjure to intrude on any of them. Even just to sit quietly in the same room and not be entombed in the mansion he couldn't bring himself to call home. Surely a home would not feel so empty? 

A thin, strained sound escapes Fenris’ mouth before he can stifle it. It is pitiful and pathetic and Fenris curses himself for being unable to stifle it. No matter his freedom, Danarius still pulls his strings and Fenris is debased for all to laugh at. A frightened little wolf with no master, he thinks bitterly. Too proud to seek out the pack he is welcome in, too strange to admit he needs them…

The thin whine has become a guttural keen, building and building as his breathing quickens, harder, deeper, then-

A howl. 

His ears flatten to his skull as his chin tips up, his posture straining to the milky face of the moon visible through the gaps in his ceiling. His knuckles turn white as he strains to stop, please Maker, afford him this one dignity, please.

A knock startles him into silence. The knock is not on his front door, but at the door to his room. 

There is no way whoever is at his door has not heard his embarrassing racket. Fenris’ ears stay low as shame colours his face and much as he is lonely he debates answering the door at all, but the knock comes again. Softer this time.

Fenris cannot hide his surprise when he finds Anders there. 

“Uh… hi.” Anders swallows hard, lifting a basket Fenris hadn't noticed between them as offering. “So, Orana made stew.”

Fenris fidgets. “You… you were at Hawke's?” It shouldn't sting. Hawke and Anders are friends as much as Fenris is with Hawke, he shouldn't feel the need to be included all the time.

“I… I made him help me at the clinic. He came to ask my help with, well… a wolf. In hightown.” Fenris tips his face down and peeks at Anders through his hair. Anders seems to sense he has struck a nerve and shuffles a half step back, the basket still outstretched. Like an offering. “Ah, I should have sent Hawke. I didn't think.” He pushes the basket into Fenris’ hands. “I could… go and get Hawke if you like? Or Varric? Isabela?” Anders looks so nervous and uncertain, and after everything they've been through and how keenly Fenris had been wanting the company it is an unwelcome expression.

Fenris looks from the basket, still warm in his hands, to the mage sheepishly fidgeting as Fenris had been doing. There has been no mention of the howling Anders must have heard, despite him apparently having heard from Hawke about the regular disturbances in Hightown.

“I would appreciate your company, mage.” Fenris cringes at how relieved he sounds, fingers tensing around the basket as he shuffles his feet. He steps back to cover his nervousness. “Come in?”

Anders tension dissolves at the welcome and he offers Fenris a lopsided grin. “Sure, Fenris. I'd like that.” Fenris’ ears perk up and Anders can't help chuckling.

\---

Aveline raises an eyebrow at Hawke. “Wait, you didn't look into it at all?!”

Hawke pales. “Well I tried! I did some research… ish? It wasn't exactly like I was going to go straight to Fenris and accuse him of something so silly.” Hawke refuses to be cowed by the towering figure Aveline cuts behind that desk. It is a refusal in progress as he squirms under her gaze nonetheless.

Then suddenly she leans back, a smirk curling her mouth. “Hm.”

“What?”

“The reports have stopped.” At Hawke's surprised face she shrugs. “If you aren't responsible then I don't know who is, or what was causing it in the first place. But the howling has stopped.”

Aveline sits down at her desk, the matter closed as far as she is concerned, but Hawke frowns. Rarely are things so easy for them, and yet he can't escape the ludicrousy of a wolf in Hightown. He's halfway out the door when he remembers the question that he had thought of when he had been looking into the incidences.

“Hey, Aveline? Why do wolves howl?”

Aveline pauses in her work, but instead of being annoyed she actually seems to know. “If I remember my father’s correctly, to find family or a mate, mostly.”

“So… we think the wolf found a mate then?” Hawke grins at Aveline as she rolls her eyes.

“Or was killed by someone more competent than you.”

Hawke stuck his tongue out at her. “Spoilsport.” He doesn't like that ending, he much prefers the wolf having found a mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr: akaiba.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr: akaiba.tumblr.com


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